Ford didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that Stan apparently didn't know about the worsening strain on the niblings' already-fragile psyches he inflicted on them that day, but he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. At the moment, he was uneaten, and that was fine by him.
What WASN'T fine were the night terrors that worsened for Dipper, and the constant state of unrest the boy was in that wasn't healthy at all for a 12-year-old. Even though the barrier around the Shack was functioning, Dipper's nightmares didn't get any less terrifying. Over the course of a week, Ford would be down on the first floor of the Shack as he normally was in the night periods, and he would hear a blood-curdling scream from the attic.
Stanley was always ahead of him in getting to the twins' attic, no matter where he was in the Shack. Ford would finally make it to their room and see Stan trying to calm Dipper down, more often than not to little avail. Even Mabel would have difficulty bringing him out of it. After the third night, everyone found out that Ford had the most success in calming Dipper down.
It took convincing, though. Ford would have to come inside slowly to show Stanley that he was unarmed, trying not to panic at his twin's glowing eyes and protective growling. Mabel would be next to her demi-dead great-uncle, her expression accusing, like she KNEW he had something to do with Dipper's worsening condition. And Ford would choke down the guilt, calm Dipper down, and let the boy cry into his sweater for as long as he needed to.
It was the eighth night—technically morning—and Ford came down the stairs after tucking Dipper back into bed, the front of his sweater bearing a tear-stained wet patch, not that he could be assed to care. He walked into the kitchen, swallowing hard when he saw that Stanley was already there, sipping some coffee.
He stood in the doorway awkwardly until Stan sighted.
"You can get your coffee, Stanford," Stan said, sounding more tired than anything. "I wont bite."
Ford didn't know if he wanted to balk or laugh at the tasteless double entendre, but he crossed the kitchen and got himself a cup of coffee, pausing before sitting at the table across from his twin, sipping the hot drink and appreciating that Stan had made it strong.
After a few minutes of tense silence, he spoke up. "…There are…several ways I could remedy his sleeping problems," he said thickly, his fingers flexing into the warmth of the cup. "But…they're not long-term solutions…and the end of summer is close."
Stan scowled at his cup, but his eyes held sadness. "I know," he replied. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "…Mabel wants to stay. She doesn't want to go back home to Piedmont."
Ford swallowed hard, nodding quietly. "I gathered as much," he said. "She's…she's very protective of you."
"Don't sugarcoat it, Ford," Stan said. "She's not just protective of me, she'd driving herself into a literal crazy frenzy to keep me safe, and I hate it!" He scowled, his fingers cracking as they flexed into the table. "You don't understand, Ford…Mabel…she used to be the brightest, happiest light in the world…I would literally do anything to put a smile on that kid's face…but I hardly see her smile anymore…"
"…I don't mean to be indelicate, Stanley, but there's not much to smile FOR," Ford replied quietly. "You're a partially-undead on a constant hair-trigger, Dipper has night terrors, and I'm an unwelcome intruder in all this…and…admittedly…the one to blame for all of it." His eyes stared into the murky black of his cup. "If I hadn't written down that damn spell…built that portal…then we wouldn't have two traumatized children, and you'd be—"
"Probably dead," Stan added on, taking a gulp of his coffee. "No use arguing that. I was in some shady business when you called for me thirty years ago, Stanford. I was probably a week away from being cut to pieces in a warehouse somewhere because I owed the wrong guys money. So small mercies THERE. But we're getting off-topic." He drained the rest of the cup, pushing it away from him. "What are we going to do about the kids?"
Ford chewed his lip, his fingers twitching slightly. "…they cant stay here," he replied. "It's not good for their health…they need to get away from here…"
"I know that, Stanford," Stan replied testily. "I've already talked to them about sending them home early, but Mabel through a fit!" He clenched his hands. "Dipper wants to leave, and I cant blame him. But how can I send him home in the state he's in?! How can I explain to his parents why he's having night terrors and jumps at his own shadow, and why he has a pathological fear of goddamn triangles?!"
There was another long, uncomfortable silence. Ford had his cup drained by the time it ended.
"…Stanley, I'm going to ask you to please stay inside the house for a while."
Stan looked up, scowling. "What the hell for?" he demanded. "Look, Ford, you've been pretty damn secretive since you got back, and I'm pretty sure that some of Dipper's condition is because of you." His eyes glowed with the dead lights, making Ford incredibly nervous. "And you're damn right, you SHOULD be afraid. I can SMELL your fear. I can SMELL that you're keeping something from me, and I want to know what it is."
"Stanley…I cant—"
"IF YOU CAN TRUST A TWELVE-YEAR-OLD CHILD WITH IT, YOU CAN TRUST ME!"
Ford jumped at the volume of Stanley's voice, his hands shaking as he forced them to stay on the table unless he KNEW he was in trouble. He forced his breathing to even out, trying to drown out the growls he was hearing; the distinct, subtle scent of death coming from across the table.
"Stanley," he began again. "If I tell you, you have to PROMISE me to STAY IN THE HOUSE. These things go hand-in-hand. If you cant promise me to stay inside, then I cant tell you everything I know."
He flinched when Stan snarled, but breathed easy when his twin settled back, the growling subsiding. Stan clenched his hands tightly, forcing back his stress response, mulling over his choices.
"…I'm going to get hungry," he finally said. Ford let out a heavy, shaking breath.
"Then I'll GET you food," he replied. "Anything you want, I'll….I'll get it for you." He swallowed hard, well aware of what 'anything' could mean. "…But…I'm afraid, Stanley…that you're the most susceptible to what's coming." He pushed off from the table, motioning for Stan to follow him, and headed down to the basement.
As the elevator lowered, he held an internal debate of whether or not this was a good idea, letting Stanley in on this. But at least if Stanley knew how dire the situation was, he might be more inclined to stay inside the house and cooperate.
And his twin had a point…Dipper WAS just twelve years old. Having his body be possessed by Bill had to have been traumatizing enough without exacerbating it with the news of what the rift would do if it broke out of containment.
Ford walked out of the elevator and over to a locked cabinet, taking out his key and unlocking it, pulling out a thick case. He set the case on the desk, taking a deep breath and letting it out.
"…You know, Mabel was correct in her first assumption of me," he said quietly, his hands trembling. "I wanted to punch your lights out for starting that portal back up…because of how damn close you were to dooming us all." He looked up, his eyes haunted. "I explained to you thirty years ago that the portal created a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. When it's fully charged, that hole is ripped open…and what can come through the other side was not worth bringing me back for."
"That wasn't for you to decide," Stan replied.
"It WAS," Ford snapped back. "It was also my decision to dismantle it…but I wasn't able to get rid of the rift." He opened the case, taking out the contained rift and holding it up. "This here is the most dangerous thing in our world," he said. "A tear in our dimension that never closed…and it can probably never be closed. I was able to contain it before it stabilized, but I'm not naïve enough to think that can last forever."
Stan frowned, staring at the rift, which reminded him of a lava lamp. It was almost mesmerizing to look at, especially considering what exactly it WAS. "Is that glass?" he asked, arching a brow. "Why not, I don't know, bullet-proof glass or a black box or something?"
"Look, I had to work with what I had!" Ford replied, putting the rift carefully back in the case. "I didn't have anything else on hand!"
Stan massaged his temples, sighing. "Ford. Seriously. For a genius, you can be so damn dense." He scowled. "THIS is why you need to inform me of these things! I could have had any of those things bought and here by now! I can HELP you with these things!"
"Your track record for 'helping' is spotty, at best," Ford replied, closing the case. "So you'll forgive me if you're not on the top of my list." He yelped when Stan shoved him back.
"You are SUCH a pretentious ASS!" Stan snapped, his eyes glowing brightly. "THIRTY YEARS, Stanford! YOU'VE suffered! I'VE suffered! Only difference is, I'VE actually done some goddamn GROWING UP! I've been LEARNING about this paranormal bullshit that's practically torn my family apart! I've been adjusting to this…..THING!...I've become, submitting myself to your stupid tests because I FUCKING TRUST YOU TO HELP ME! So WHY cant YOU give ME the same courtesy!?"
Ford swallowed hard, his hands shaking slightly, trying not to panic at having his twin yelling at him with dead light eyes and a distorted voice. But it was also that last bit ringing in his head that had him shaken.
I FUCKING TRUST YOU TO HELP ME
It wasn't just Stanley submitting mindlessly to cure tests…Stanley actually TRUSTED him to find a cure for his condition. Trusted him WITH his condition. He didn't know why it was making his chest constrict tightly, like it did when he saw Dipper's reaction to his own past with Bill.
Guilt.
He was feeling guilt.
Guilt for his own journal entry putting Stanley in this predicament.
Guilt for betraying Stanley's trust in him pertaining to the children.
Guilt for—yet again—underestimating Stanley's capacity for understanding something, if someone actually took the time to explain it.
Ford stumbled over to his chair and sat down hard, pushing his glasses up and rubbing his face.
"…Alright," he said softly, looking up almost helplessly. "…there's…more you need to know…about who wants this rift, and why you need to stay inside the house."
Stan crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall, his expression neutral, but eyes as bright as ever.
"I'm listening."